


The Language Of You

by PlaneJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Romance, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon AU set immediately after S1E11, The Labyrinth of Gedref. Arthur attempts to seduce Merlin with a sojourn by the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language Of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rodneyscat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodneyscat/gifts).



Merlin doesn’t seem surprised to see Arthur blinking up at him. He says evenly, “I’d never seen the sea, before today,” and returns his gaze to the horizon, as tranquil and content as Arthur’s ever seen him.

Arthur’s head is resting in the soft cradle of Merlin’s lap, his armoured body sprawled across the flat rocks on the beach of Gedref. He’s driven to make the clarification, since Merlin is more preoccupied with the view: “I’m not dead.”

“It appears not. You’ve been asleep—for ages, I might add. My legs are numb.”

Joyous relief rumbles out of Arthur’s chest, his laughter shaking his chainmail. Merlin looks down at him, his big blue eyes bright and shining, and smiles, impossibly fond. Every time, _every time_ Merlin does that Arthur is thrown off kilter. He scrabbles up, untangling himself from Merlin’s arms, searching for a taunt and finding nothing.

Merlin wiggles his legs against the grey stones and holds out his hand, confident that Arthur will pull him to his feet. His hand is warm, his grip solid and firm; Arthur is once again grounded by its certainty. Still, it’s a strange dance, this one. As Merlin shakes out the stiffness in his limbs, Arthur stumbles back, briefly overtaken with the vastness of the sea and the sky.

He rights himself, picks up his sword and he and Merlin share a glance, another smile, before they’re racing up the beach.

~*~

As they hasten to Camelot, Arthur has little time to take pause.

It’s only in the following weeks, after the return to plenty, that Arthur is able to fully and thoroughly consider Merlin: defender of Crown Princes and unicorns, admirer of the sea, shirker of domestic duties. To illustrate the last to perfection, Merlin is presently plumping pillows with the vigour of a wilted daisy.

“Put some effort into it, Merlin,” Arthur says, heading for the door, about to take leave for an audience with his father.

The pillow whooshes past Arthur’s ear and lands with a low thud.

“Like that, you mean?”

Arthur hangs onto the door, half hoping for a second assault. “I didn’t know you had it in you. I’ll have to get you back out on the training field.”

“Is that a promise?” 

Arthur takes refuge in his role as Merlin’s lord and master, doubling his efforts. “Of course. After you’ve polished my armour and my boots, and mucked out my horses.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “And picked herbs for Gaius and taken medicines to all his patients in the upper town. Sure, I’d love to. I was thinking of giving up sleep, anyway.”

In truth, it’s no joke and hardly reasonable. Merlin scarcely has a minute to himself, between being Arthur’s manservant and Gaius’ apprentice.

Arthur ought to give him up—it’s not like Merlin’s a good manservant. But the knowledge that Arthur’s life would be drastically impoverished without Merlin at his side runs as deeply as the marrow in his bones. One might call theirs a true friendship. Though in the long, lonely hours of the night, Arthur finds his feelings another name—one he dare not confess even as he ponders Merlin’s irresistible insouciance and what might be hidden beneath the ill-fitting layers of his wardrobe.

For all Merlin’s warmth and devotion, Arthur is not certain and their friendship too great a gift to risk if he’s wrong. Yet there is something, something in the tilt of Merlin’s head, in the quirk of his sudden smile, in the way his gentle fingers falter at Arthur’s collar.

Arthur closes the door, sorry to be leaving, but also alight with a flutter of excitement. Hanging on the breath of late summer is the promise of autumn. The dew is heavier these past few mornings and a light chill sharpens the dawn air. If Arthur is to act upon his instinct, it has to be now, or not until the spring.

Uther is eating breakfast and beckons Arthur to sit. Pleasantries are exchanged, stocks reviewed and finally Arthur pleads his cause: to return to Gedref. He asks his father to consider the possibility of building a port further along the shore, to the south of Gedref on the site of an abandoned fort from the days when the merchant Fyrien traded across the Sea of Meredor.

The speed of Uther’s reply can only mean his decision was made before Arthur finished speaking. “Out of the question,” he says. “It’s too close to Caerleon’s land. He will see it as an act of aggression.”

“But the port would be on Camelot’s lands.”

“The Sea of Meredor, however, does not belong to Camelot.”

“Nor does it belong to Caerleon. We share that coastline. It’s not like we’d be diverting trade or taking anything from Caerleon, we’d be bringing it back to the region, and giving him a chance to take his share. If anything, this could be an opportunity to open dialogue.” That piques Uther’s interest. Arthur doesn’t waste his chance and continues, “The land to the south-east of the White Mountains is flat and fertile, yet there are no settlements there. If trade was coming and going across the sea, it would also have to cross the land, in many directions. A settlement would increase Camelot’s wealth, help guard against future famine with extra grain reserves and provide an outpost for merchants using the trade route. The surrounding mountains would act as a buffer—”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Yes—though I should like to return to survey the area more thoroughly. Merlin and I could leave tomorrow and be back within a week.”

Uther ruminates, which is a good sign. Arthur sits back in his chair, stretches out his legs and tries not to look too eager, too desperate, in case his true motive should erupt like boils on his skin.

“Very well.”

Arthur’s chair skitters back as he rises. It’s too late to censor his grin though as he’s about to leave Uther momentarily wipes it clean off his face when he says, “I know why you’re doing this, Arthur.”

“You do?” Arthur’s stomach takes a tumble.

“Yes. You’re trying to demonstrate to me that you understand it takes more than bravery to be ruler of a kingdom; that tending to the welfare of your people takes planning and initiative.”

_Oh, yes. That._

~*~

The sky is not as kind as it was the last time Arthur crossed the plains at the foot of the White Mountains. The air is laden with moisture, dulling the vista. The threat of rain is ever-present.

“Remind me, what are we doing here?” Merlin asks in that tone that says he’s warming up to a lengthy grumble.

Arthur, well acquainted with Merlin’s habit, retains an air of equanimity. “ _I_ am surveying the area for potential habitation. You are here … well, I’m never quite sure why I take you anywhere.”

“Because you’re completely incapable of looking after yourself.”

“Ah, yes. That would be it,” Arthur says, quite contrite, chuckling to himself.

It riles Merlin no end. Perfect. He’s shifting on his saddle and screwing up his nose, and Arthur has to look away to contain his mirth, towards the murky outline of the lightly wooded hillside skirting around the edge of the Labyrinth of Gedref.

Arthur doesn’t need to look at Merlin; he can feel Merlin’s shoulders tensing as he prepares to launch into a tirade.

Arthur braces himself.

_Here it comes, here it comes._

Merlin turns and draws a deep breath. “Why would anyone want to live here? It’s damp and boggy and you can’t see for shit.”

“It wasn’t like this the last time we rode through.”

“Hmph.” Merlin turns up his collar and furrows his brow. “If this happens a lot, this fog, it doesn’t bode well for a trading outpost. I mean, on the whole, I’d have thought you’d want your weary travellers to _be able to find it._ ”

Merlin has a point _(doesn’t he always?)_. It’s no surprise that no one has settled here. For a start, there’s no source of fresh water save what hangs in the air. There’s no way a man could drink the stuff that bubbles up in stinking pools off the trail beside them. Additionally, frequent fog could make the area vulnerable to attack.

Arthur smiles inside. The real purpose of this expedition will be revealed in all its glory to Merlin tomorrow. Under a clear sky they’ll reach the sea, where they’ll behold its majesty at their leisure and contemplate the possibilities of a full few days of uninterrupted time.

Arthur’s stomach flutters with butterflies, in anticipation of what might be, with Merlin all to himself in that quiet wilderness.

When they reach the trees Merlin says, “Are we going to camp here?”

Arthur cranes his neck about. Not that he can see anything but the faint silhouettes of the trees through the fog. There could be an ambush surrounding them less than twenty feet away (there isn’t) and he’d not be able to see so much as a shadow.

The stillness and silence are eerie. No birds chorus the setting of the sun, though in fairness where the sun lies on its trajectory is a matter for conjecture. The shadows beyond the fog have darkened. It certainly feels like the evening. Arthur is weary, like he could sleep for a hundred years.

“Yes, we’ll stop here for the night.”

Merlin doesn’t look happy about it but then he’s looked miserable for the best part of the afternoon. Nonetheless, Arthur is confident all will be well in the morning—which can’t come a moment too soon.

While Merlin unpacks provisions and lights a quick fire, with a heavy hand Arthur scribbles notes and marks points of interest across the map he’s brought. He spends longer on it than he realises because the next time he looks up Merlin has rustled together a tasty stew. Arthur quits the scroll and diverts his wandering attention to sustenance.

They sit side by side in front of the fire, eating their fill, doing their best to shrug the gloom from their backs. The soothing crackle of a well-built fire and the warming vapours from a skin of wine hit the spot; Arthur yawns and eyes his bedroll with longing.

Merlin is tired, too. As soon as the supper is cleared he’s rolling out his mat, much further from Arthur’s than is necessary. _It’s like that then_. Arthur can’t help himself; he nudges his bed closer and says, “There’s no need to go all the way over there, unless you’ve got an outbreak of flatulence.”

Merlin’s scowl is a gem! He mumbles something that Arthur doesn’t catch. It’s left hanging. The urge to sleep is proving too great for both of them to continue their usual push and shove.

~*~

Arthur sleeps deeply. So deeply, in fact, that when he awakes it feels as though the night came and went in the blinking of an eye. As he pushes up and looks around, Merlin is nowhere to be seen and as Arthur inhales his throat is scorched by an acrid stench, like brimstone. The site of the fire is a pile of smouldering embers and rest of their small camp is a wreckage of charred logs and scuffed earth.

Amidst this strangeness, Merlin emerges from between a wedge of thick ferns. All around them, there is rich green undergrowth, illuminated by bright dappled morning light from above. The fog has cleared.

“What on earth happened here?” Arthur says, finding his voice scratchy.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says before gulping down water from the skin in his bag, his thirst mirroring Arthur’s. “I’ve only just woken up myself. I had to pee.” He pauses and says too lightly, “That wine must have really knocked me out.”

Merlin looks like he’s been dragged through the undergrowth backwards: his dark curls unrulier than ever, a tiny scratch over the rise of his cheekbone, scuffs of earth and green at his knees. From the darkness beneath his eyes, he didn’t get a wink of sleep. Something is awry.

Arthur rises and scans the clearing. All their possessions, including the horses, can be accounted for.

The way Merlin’s hurrying to pack up is completely out of character. There’s no doubt about it, he’s unnerved. Fear is as contagious as the pox, so when he pleads, “We need to get out of here,” Arthur is compelled to ease the tension.

“Why? Have you got a _bad feeling_ about it?”

As Merlin’s mouth turns down, Arthur immediately regrets his words. 

“Yes, I have as a matter of fact." Merlin turns away sharply to secure his pack on his mare with agitated fingers. “In the night. There was something in the woods.”

“You mean like a wolf or a bear?”

“I don’t know what it was. _Something_ ripped up the camp and I don’t think it’s friendly.”

The disarray about the camp is testament, there’s no denying it. But the nature of the beast, if that’s what it was, remains a mystery. Even though he knows he’s inviting one of Merlin’s wild speculations, and perhaps because of it, Arthur asks, “Then why didn’t it attack us?”

Merlin sighs loudly but the next moment his shoulders ease and his face lifts. “Perhaps it got a look at your face and thought better of it. Or perhaps your snoring frightened it away.”

Merlin grins, then laughs. It’s clearly forced at first but as soon as Arthur joins him Merlin’s eyes catch up with the upturn of his mouth.

That doesn’t stop the lingering and inexplicable uneasy feeling Arthur has that there’s something strange and sinister about this place. He washes down a husk of bread with water while Merlin finishes packing and they ride on with the late sunrise at their shoulders, more swiftly than usual.

~*~

Silence prevails as they traverse the narrow trail through the wood. It’s only a few miles and by the time they reach the other side Merlin appears less anxious. He’s crunching on an apple that he’d been keeping in his pocket (with no offer of one for Arthur).

Arthur tries not to worry about Merlin’s quietness, putting it down to a bad night’s sleep. The day is stretching endlessly before them like the beach and broad blue horizon. If he’s tired, Merlin can doze to his heart’s content in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

They ride south along the cliff top, towards the ruin of the fort on the headland.

When trade was rich along these shores the main outpost was a castle, perched half a mile from the mainland on a tiny island still visible from the shore. Given their night in the woods, Arthur can see now why no attempt was made to encourage an outpost inland. However, it doesn’t explain why more wasn’t made of the port, where the small fort was constructed. Except that perhaps back then Camelot’s resources were not as plentiful.

The outer wall has fallen in places but the keep looks strong. They tie the horses and stretch out the tautness from the morning’s ride and from sleeping on the ground the night before.

The bluster of the sea breeze is invigorating yet Merlin, not long off his horse, slumps bonelessly onto a low section of wall.

Arthur probably needs to explain that the day, the next few days are theirs to squander. In all likelihood, Merlin has never heard of a sojourn, let alone had one. He’ll be delighted when he realises.

“Come on, Merlin. Perk up,” Arthur says cheerily. “Let’s take a walk down to the beach.”

“Do you need me to come with you?”

“Well no, but I should like you to come with me.”

Merlin drags his heels down the hillside, down the cliff path to the beach. The tide is a long way out. There’s a wide belt of sand along which they can walk towards the caves, yawning like sleepy giants further down the shore. It awakens in Arthur a childish curiosity that fills him with sudden joy; thoughts of taking Merlin by the hand and searching for hidden treasure.

Arthur stops on the flat rocks, inhales a lungful and rolls back his shoulders. This will be the place he tells Merlin, where they came before, only this time with the benefit of no impending death threat.

Wrapping his arm around Merlin’s shoulders, in a brotherly sort of way, Arthur says, “It’s beautiful here. So different to Camelot, to the castle and the land around it.”

“I suppose.”

Merlin’s lethargy is more than tiredness. His reluctance is palpable, even to Arthur, who will concede he isn’t always the best at deciphering the subtleties of Merlin’s expressions. It’s grating, given the lengths Arthur’s gone to, getting them here, but understandable. Arthur tries to be sympathetic. “I know you had a rough night last night—”

“You could say that.”

“But it’s more than that. What’s bothering you?”

Merlin takes a step back, takes that big breath like he does when he’s about to say something he knows Arthur won’t like. “You can’t seriously be thinking about building a settlement back there, by the White Mountains, or even here. I mean, there’s got to be a reason it’s remained uninhabited all this time.”

Relief begins to wash over Arthur, like the lapping of the waves up the shore. “I was thinking about it, but not now.”

“Then why are we still here? Why didn’t we just turn around and go back again?”

“Because there’s no rush to go back.” Arthur puffs a little, revelling in his crowning moment. “I’ve brought you here so that you can have a rest from your duties for a few days.”

Merlin’s face darkens into a black, fierce storm cloud, marring what was a radiant blue sky. “Rest? Here? After I’ve set up camp, searched for dry firewood, lit the fire, prepared the food and cleared away again while you sit around …” Merlin’s arms wave about like he’s trying to grab his words from the air. “… doodling over your parchment. This is nothing to do with me, you selfish prat. If this was about me having time for myself you’d have just given me a few days off.”

Even as Arthur’s mouth flaps up and down in protest he knows Merlin’s got a point. (Why does he _always_ have a point?) Still, it’s not too late to rescue the situation. “I’ll help out. I will. Besides, if we’d stayed in Camelot, Gaius would have had you running around for him.”

It’s hard for Arthur to say the rest out loud, but it’s the truth and despite all the times they’ve argued, Merlin has never mocked him for speaking what’s in his heart. “I thought you’d like to see the sea again, that it might be nice for us to spend a couple of days here.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

It had sounded better in Arthur’s head. Merlin’s hands have settled on his hips, which is never a good sign. Arthur’s plan is starting to look as fruitful as the dried up bits of seaweed caking the edges of the rocks.

“I thought … I thought you liked it here. The way—” It’s beginning to feel pointless, humiliating even, justifying what he thought was obvious. “When we came here before, you … you seemed so peaceful and calm. You looked happy.”

“I was happy because you weren’t dead, you dolt.” Merlin shakes his head, and says like he’s talking to an imbecile, “How could you ever think I’d want to come back here?”

Arthur shrugs and sits down on the rock, defeated.

Why is Merlin so difficult to read? Learning to _read_ wasn’t as difficult as this. Arthur mastered the rudiments of Latin and Greek as easily as he mastered the sword, but Merlin, he remains as indecipherable as ancient runes, and women.

The sun is shining on the sea. Tiny flecks of light dance carelessly on the wave tops to the sound of the hush-and-hush of the waves creeping up the shore. It goes on and on, regardless of anyone or anything, irreverent and immutable. Where it was beautiful minutes ago, it now feels mocking.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, though he’s not sure Merlin hears him. It feels like his voice has been taken away on the breeze.

Unexpectedly, the next moment, Arthur feels the brush of Merlin’s fingertips in his hair. Then Merlin sits down beside him and rests his palm on his back, between his shoulder blades. Gently, he says, “When you drank Anhora’s potion, I thought you’d died. For a few seconds I thought I’d lost you, until Anhora told me you were only sleeping.”

“I had to drink it,” Arthur blurts out. Merlin must understand, surely. “I had no other choice.”

“That’s not my point. Please, Arthur, listen to me, because you still don’t get it, do you?”

Arthur thought he did. He thought Merlin was angry that he’d drunk the potion, because he’s a prince and that makes him important. But when Arthur drank that potion, while the good of Camelot was in his mind, uppermost in his thoughts was the man sitting opposite him, equally out of choices.

Merlin.

Arthur drank that potion out of love, and love doesn’t recognise rank.

Love.

_Love._

_That’s what it is._

Merlin doesn’t give Arthur a chance to examine that admission and what it means for Merlin as well as for himself.

Merlin is still explaining, “When I thought you were dead, just for that short moment, it was like … it was like my whole world had ended. And it hurt. Then I had all that time sitting on the beach to think about what it would be like if you had really died; what it would be like to hurt that much not for a few seconds but for days, months, years. And I don’t understand how you can treat it like it was nothing; how you can consider your life so cheaply when it’s worth so much.”

Which implies Merlin still believes it is he who should have drunk the potion, regardless of the outcome, regardless of the fact that Arthur did the right thing; for once he did the right thing without advice from anyone.

And it might have been a mistake to come here, but—

“Your life is worth no less than mine. You think I drank that potion without regard for you, for how you’d feel? I did it because you mean more to me than…” Arthur wishes he could say it, that he loves Merlin with all his heart. But he can’t, not yet. Instead, just above a whisper he says, “I only wanted to do something to make you happy.”

Arthur pushes up, since they’ve got more than enough off their chests. “Come on then. If we get going now, we’ll be back before dusk and you can have a few a days off, all right?” Maybe then, Merlin will forgive him. Maybe he hasn’t completely ruined everything.

“Hold on.” Merlin’s thinking. Arthur isn’t sure if that’s going to make things worse for him or better. Though he’s not sure he could feel much lower than he does at this moment.

Merlin jumps up, reaches for Arthur, grabs his sleeve and the darkness leaves, sun breaks through the clouds. “You said ‘for us’. You said you thought it might be nice for _us_ to spend a couple of days here. You wanted for it to be just us, together.” Merlin sweeps his other arm out, towards the sea, his face lit up with what at last looks like happiness. “You were trying to—”

Merlin doesn’t finish speaking and Arthur doesn’t get the chance to make an undignified retreat because Merlin takes a stride, right into Arthur, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, pulls his face to his and kisses him.

In between the ardent press of his mouth, Merlin is muttering, “don’t you ever,” and, “stupid,” and, “all this time,” and Arthur doesn’t really understand what those words are supposed to mean but he understands Merlin’s arms, wound around him tight as a vine. He understands Merlin’s tongue, pressing into his mouth and claiming him, taking his breath and his sighs.

Arthur takes the back of Merlin’s head in his hand. He puts his other arm around Merlin’s waist, around the whole, slender girth of him, all the while returning every kiss and branding _love_ and _never leave me_ onto Merlin’s skin.

Arthur could have stayed like that, could have kept Merlin close in his arms until the tide turned. He would have let the sun set and the stars light up the sky before letting him go: his Merlin, his beloved. But Merlin pulls back first, cups Arthur’s jaw in his hand and casts a glance up in the direction of the fort.

Arthur’s not confident enough to be sure how far Merlin wants to go yet, even though his hips are pressed closely enough to Arthur’s his arousal is unmistakeable. “You want to take this up there?”

Merlin winds his fingers through Arthur’s hair at his nape and grins. “Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Merlin takes Arthur by the hand and runs, dragging him over the rocks, over the sand and up the hill. And even as Merlin slows, gasping for breath, he’s laughing. Arthur, too, is breathless and giddy.

They slow to a stroll, hand in hand, every few paces pulling each other sideways for another kiss, another touch, until they reach the keep.

The stairs are intact and the upper floor is light enough and dry. The wind whistles softly beyond the narrow windows. They’ll be safe and warm here. Arthur undoes the buckles on his pack, the one he brought ostensibly filled with equipment for his survey. Apart from the map, the bag contains nothing of the sort. The first thing Arthur extracts is a lambskin blanket. Rolling it out carefully on top of the rougher mat pulled from Merlin’s pack, Arthur takes out the small stoppered bottles filled with oil and puts them deliberately to one side. They’re for later, for if Merlin wants that kind of intimacy.

Merlin is observing from the sidelines, twisting at the knot in his neckerchief. His jacket is flung to the ground. He looks less cocksure now, but no less eager. His breeches might be loose, but the tenting at the front tells Arthur all he needs to know.

He can’t look at Merlin without wanting to touch him. When Arthur stands, he goes immediately to Merlin and settles his hands on his hips. “Have you ever had anyone undress you?”

Shakily, Merlin answers, “Not since I was a child, and I can’t say I remember that.” 

“I want to undress you.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Make sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for? Give you a chance to back out.” He’s covering his shyness, or perhaps apprehension. It’s their way, to tease and joke through their vulnerabilities. 

“You’re not going to disappointment me,” Arthur says definitely.

Arthur starts with the neckerchief. The knot’s already loosened and it falls easily from Merlin’s neck. His skin there is warm silk and summer spice. Arthur inhales before he tastes, feels Merlin shiver in his hold.

Hundreds of times by now, Merlin has robed and disrobed Arthur. In the beginning, he was clumsy and awkward. Practice has made him deft, but his attention has never once been what Arthur would call perfunctory. Arthur imagined it was part of Merlin’s insubordination. He now wonders if for Merlin the contact was a continual torment, as it had oftentimes been for him.

Back when Kanen was terrorising Ealdor, when tension had been running on a different sort of high, Arthur had helped Merlin dress for battle. He’d spoken of Merlin’s bravery as he closed his hands around the tremble in his arms. Arthur remembers with a fresh rush of passion the closeness he’d felt to Merlin then. He hadn’t appreciated until now the pleasure there would be in revealing Merlin layer by layer.

Merlin’s voice is still a little shaky as he places his palms on Arthur’s chest and says, “What would you have done, if I’d refused you?”

“I would have been civil and respected your lack of judgement. Then I would have privately wept for my poor broken heart.”

Merlin sniggers, finding his footing through the fog of his nerves. “I see.” He tugs at the laces on Arthur’s shirt and loosens them enough to slide his fingers onto Arthur’s chest. His dark lashes flutter as at first he looks down before lifting his eyes to meet to Arthur’s. “I would have come to your bed months ago. I didn’t know how to … or if that was what you wanted.”

Held fast in Merlin’s gaze, Arthur says, “I’ve never wanted anything as much.”

He unbuckles Merlin’s belt and lifts his tunic over his head. Merlin’s skin goosebumps though the air is warm, the deep pink skin of his nipples tightening to tantalising nubs. Arthur skims the pads of his thumbs across them and revels in his gasp.

Merlin has an inner strength that belies his youthful face, his slender frame, his ingenuous way. Yet, it seems that Arthur’s hands upon him have made him weak. Merlin dips his head down to rest it upon Arthur’s shoulder, bracing himself while Arthur unties his breeches and lets them fall.

The lambskin is a soft comfort on which to lay Merlin down, to take the place of Arthur’s embrace as he undresses himself, regarding Merlin who in turn is regarding him. Arthur has no shyness but he cannot deny his anxiety.

This new territory is not so much frightening as overwhelming. The waiting and wanting makes them over-eager, makes each touch by turns too fleeting, too rough, too slow, too fast.

Merlin is as impatient as Arthur is, pulling him close and wrapping his legs over Arthur’s thighs. He’s lithe and pliant, bending around Arthur’s embrace and moving with it. They fit together like they were always meant to be that way.

Arthur’s cock is aligned with Merlin’s, both their erections pressed between the rise and fall of their hips. The friction isn’t enough, until Merlin closes his long, slender fingers about them both and then, back arched, eyes fluttering closed, he reaches his climax, his legs still wrapped around Arthur’s hips. And so soon after, Arthur follows, so that they are shuddering and spilling together, their harsh breaths louder than the whistling wind beyond the grey stone walls.

Merlin is flushed across his cheeks and over his chest. He keeps Arthur on top of him, gifting him a sated, lazy smile while their spill seals them together. Not that there’s any need for that. Arthur has no plans to let Merlin go.

Arthur, at last, reaches for his summer cloak, pulls it over them as Merlin curls into his arms. Within minutes he’s asleep with his head in the space between Arthur’s chest and shoulder.

Quietly, Arthur whispers into Merlin’s hair, “That’s it. Sleep.”

~*~

Later, and they must have both dozed for a time, they awake still close, cosseted in the blissful heat of young wool and skin.

Merlin lazes in Arthur’s arms, draping his leg over Arthur’s thighs as if the embrace wasn’t closeness enough. He looks up to tell Arthur, “I am glad you brought me back here.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I get it.” Merlin plants kisses on each of Arthur’s knuckles. “Sometimes you have to go back first, in order to go forward.”

In that case, Arthur tentatively decides to broach another subject. He asks carefully, “Do you want to talk about last night?”

Merlin tenses for an almost imperceptible second then relaxes again. “No. I’m all right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Merlin wriggles up, until he’s lying on top of Arthur and kisses him in a way that’s asking for that to be the end of it. Whatever it was in the woods, whatever happened in the woods, Merlin doesn’t want to talk about it.

Arthur won’t press him. Somewhere, just beyond the periphery of what he knows for certain about Merlin, or perhaps all he wants to know, there is a mystery. If Arthur wants to solve it, if he makes demands for complete honesty, he has to be prepared for honest answers. At the moment, things are good as they are. There’ll be time aplenty for the difficult conversations.

It’s easy to see from the light in Merlin’s eyes, to feel beneath the weight of his caress, the words _love_ and _devotion_ and _always_ , said truly and sincerely. For now, Arthur is content that understanding that much is enough.

__Meantime, he kisses Merlin soundly in return._ _


End file.
